Filling the Crevices of the Wall

In the darkness of destruction, we’re reminded of the opportunity to rebuild.

A few years ago my grandfather passed away right before the 17th of Tammuz. On the fast day I was helping my mother as she sat shiva and an old family friend offered me a drink.

"No thanks, I'm fasting." I said.

"What are you fasting for?" he asked. So I explained that it was the 17th of Tammuz, and we were mourning the day that the walls of Jerusalem were breached before the Second Temple was destroyed.

"I never heard of this fast day. But you know what's even sadder? Last year my wife and I visited Israel for the first time. We went on a tour of the Old City and the tour guide points out the Temple Mount. And all we could see was this huge mosque and then the tour guide points out the Western Wall. And I couldn't believe it. That's it? That's all that's left of the Temple? One wall? So I think I know why there's a fast. There's so little we have left."

He put down his own drink and stared out the window into the withering summer day. And I thought about his words for days afterwards: That's it? That's all that's left? One wall?

After the shiva ended, I went one morning to a beach I used to go to when I was little. The sun had just risen, and the ocean looked like it was on fire. I stood for a while on the shore, listening to the furious crashing of the waves. And suddenly I longed to jump into the water like I used to, even though I hadn't planned on swimming. First I just waded into the water until my knees and then I saw that familiar opening beneath a huge wave. I dove underneath its crest towards the next wave. And the next. Until an enormous wave caught me and churned me towards land.

I picked myself up, my clothes covered in sand, and salt water dripping down my face. And I stood there crying without warning. Is this all that's left? Show me something real, something whole. Fill the gap. Take away this aching loss. Help me find myself. Give me back my life.

The only answer was silence. Lonely, exhausted silence punctuated only by the fiery ocean crashing and retreating before me.

It took me some time to realize that the silence itself was a gift. That I wasn't supposed to find myself; I was meant to create myself. That it was up to me to build something real and whole. To look at the gap and see how I could help fill it.

Last night, my son, who is named after my grandfather, was standing with me on the deck.

"Why is the world so big?" he asked me as we gazed up at the towering trees and the endless stretch of star-studded sky.

"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe because we need room to grow."

And as the fireflies began to light up the dark corners of the yard, I thought that it must be true. The darkness is here for us to create light. The brokenness is here for us to learn how to make ourselves whole. And the Western Wall – all that's left – is so much more than just a remnant of our past. It's there to remind us to rebuild. It's there to hold our crumpled notes and dreams. It's a gift. Like the gap between the waves that pulled me in and brought me back to shore. Like the saltwater that poured down my face and the sand that blurred my eyes. Like the silence that gives us a chance to find our own words. Like the hugeness of the world that makes room for us to grow. Like the man who put down his drink and said. “I think I know why there's a fast.” There's a gap. In our hearts. In the crevices of the Wall.

But the gap is the gift. And all that's left is the extraordinary opportunity to fill it.

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About the Author

Sara Debbie Gutfreund received her BA in English from the University of Pennsylvania and her MA in Family Therapy from the University of North Texas. She has taught parenting classes and self-development seminars and provided adolescent counseling. She writes extensively for many online publications and in published anthologies of Jewish women's writing. She and her husband spent 14 wonderful years raising their five children in Israel, and now live in Blue Ridge Estates in Waterbury, Connecticut, where Sara Debbie enjoys skiing and running in her free time.

Visitor Comments: 7

Im speechless.
Thank you for your beautiful, uplifting words. You have so much strength.

(6)
esther,
June 26, 2013 3:20 AM

you write so beautifully- straight from the heart. thank you!

(5)
Rachel Kapen,
June 24, 2013 12:14 PM

Why the crevices?

Without the many crevices in the Kotel, where would we leave our , what we call in Hebrew: כרטיס ביקור with our little requests from G-d ?

(4)
deborah riley,
June 24, 2013 10:54 AM

Where is God in this re-creation?

I believe that our brokeness and our emptiness can only be repaired and filled by the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the covenant keeping God. And what is covenanant? I heard an excellent definition: "Everything that's mine is yours, and everything that's your's is mine." It's coming to Him and surrending all in order to receive all from Him.

(3)
Dayana,
June 24, 2013 4:11 AM

Thank you

for one of the most meaningful essays I've ever read.

(2)
ruth housman,
June 23, 2013 3:25 PM

Jump the Gap

this is how we create sparks, how we think, as it's neurons we are told, jumping the gap. There are such profound and beautiful metaphors that bind all Life. Once you see this, the endless metaphors that do deeply connect to our experiential lives, from nature, from all Creation, we see something very deep, and that is, it's ALL ONE. And this perception is going to move us all into a profoundly new state of consciousness, in seeing that Unitary Nature of all Life. It means' what's "WON", is going to be a massive movement towards World Peace. Conscience marries consciousness. And so we move forward towards 2020 which means Perfect Vision. I LIVE IN the metaphor. I also know a building 2020 is just around the corner from The Church of the Messiah on Commonwealth Avenue in Newton. Random? I think not. It's a language based story. God wrote the entire story. It's ALL GOD.

I'm told that it's a mitzvah to become intoxicated on Purim. This puzzles me, because to my understanding, it is not considered a good thing to become intoxicated, period.

One of the characteristics of the at-risk youth is their use of drugs, including alcohol. In my experience, getting drunk doesn't reveal secrets. It makes people act stupid and irresponsible, doing things they would never do if they were sober. Also, I know a lot about the horrible health effects of abusing alcohol, because I work at a research center that focuses on addiction and substance abuse.

Also, I am an alcoholic, which means that if I drink, very bad things happen. I have not had a drink in 22 years, and I have no intention of starting now. Surely there must be instances where a person is excused from the obligation to drink. I don't see how Judaism could ever promote the idea of getting drunk. It just doesn't seem right.

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

Putting aside for a moment all the spiritual and philosophical reasons for getting drunk on Purim, this remains an issue of common sense. Of course, teenagers should be warned of the dangers of acute alcohol ingestion. Of course, nobody should drink and drive. Of course, nobody should become so drunk to the point of negligence in performing mitzvot. And of course, a recovering alcoholic should not partake of alcohol on Purim.

Indeed, the Code of Jewish Law explicitly says that if one suspects the drinking may affect him negatively, then he should NOT drink.

Getting drunk on Purim is actually one of the most difficult mitzvot to do correctly. A person should only drink if it will lead to positive spiritual results - e.g. under the loosening affect of the alcohol, greater awareness will surface of the love for God and Torah found deep in the heart. (Perhaps if we were on a higher spiritual level, we wouldn't need to get drunk!)

Yet the Talmud still speaks of an obligation on Purim of "not knowing the difference between Blessed is Mordechai and Cursed is Haman." How then should a person who doesn't drink get the point of “not knowing”? Simple - just go to sleep! (Rama - OC 695:2)

All this applies to individuals. But the question remains - does drinking on Purim adversely affect the collective social health of the Jewish community?

The aversion to alcoholism is engrained into Jewish consciousness from a number of Biblical and Talmudic sources. There are the rebuking words of prophets - Isaiah 28:1, Hosea 3:1 with Rashi, and Amos 6:6, and the Zohar says that "The wicked stray after wine" (Midrash Ne'alam Parshat Vayera).

It is well known that the rate of alcoholism among Jews has historically been very low. Numerous medical, psychological and sociological studies have confirmed this. The connection between Judaism and sobriety is so evident, that the following conversation is reported by Lawrence Kelemen in "Permission to Receive":

When Dr. Mark Keller, editor of the Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol, commented that "practically all Jews do drink, and yet all the world knows that Jews hardly ever become alcoholics," his colleague, Dr. Howard Haggard, director of Yale's Laboratory of Applied Physiology, jokingly proposed converting alcoholics to the Jewish religion in order to immerse them in a culture with healthy attitudes toward drinking!

Perhaps we could suggest that it is precisely because of the use of alcohol in traditional ceremonies (Kiddush, Bris, Purim, etc.), that Jews experience such low rates of alcoholism. This ceremonial usage may actually act like an inoculation - i.e. injecting a safe amount that keeps the disease away.

Of course, as we said earlier, all this needs to be monitored with good common sense. Yet in my personal experience - having been in the company of Torah scholars who were totally drunk on Purim - they acted with extreme gentleness and joy. Amid the Jewish songs and beautiful words of Torah, every year the event is, for me, very special.

Adar 12 marks the dedication of Herod's renovations on the second Holy Temple in Jerusalem in 11 BCE. Herod was king of Judea in the first century BCE who constructed grand projects like the fortresses at Masada and Herodium, the city of Caesarea, and fortifications around the old city of Jerusalem. The most ambitious of Herod's projects was the re-building of the Temple, which was in disrepair after standing over 300 years. Herod's renovations included a huge man-made platform that remains today the largest man-made platform in the world. It took 10,000 men 10 years just to build the retaining walls around the Temple Mount; the Western Wall that we know today is part of that retaining wall. The Temple itself was a phenomenal site, covered in gold and marble. As the Talmud says, "He who has not seen Herod's building, has never in his life seen a truly grand building."

Some people gauge the value of themselves by what they own. But in reality, the entire concept of ownership of possessions is based on an illusion. When you obtain a material object, it does not become part of you. Ownership is merely your right to use specific objects whenever you wish.

How unfortunate is the person who has an ambition to cleave to something impossible to cleave to! Such a person will not obtain what he desires and will experience suffering.

Fortunate is the person whose ambition it is to acquire personal growth that is independent of external factors. Such a person will lead a happy and rewarding life.

With exercising patience you could have saved yourself 400 zuzim (Berachos 20a).

This Talmudic proverb arose from a case where someone was fined 400 zuzim because he acted in undue haste and insulted some one.

I was once pulling into a parking lot. Since I was a bit late for an important appointment, I was terribly annoyed that the lead car in the procession was creeping at a snail's pace. The driver immediately in front of me was showing his impatience by sounding his horn. In my aggravation, I wanted to join him, but I saw no real purpose in adding to the cacophony.

When the lead driver finally pulled into a parking space, I saw a wheelchair symbol on his rear license plate. He was handicapped and was obviously in need of the nearest parking space. I felt bad that I had harbored such hostile feelings about him, but was gratified that I had not sounded my horn, because then I would really have felt guilty for my lack of consideration.

This incident has helped me to delay my reactions to other frustrating situations until I have more time to evaluate all the circumstances. My motives do not stem from lofty principles, but from my desire to avoid having to feel guilt and remorse for having been foolish or inconsiderate.

Today I shall...

try to withhold impulsive reaction, bearing in mind that a hasty act performed without full knowledge of all the circumstances may cause me much distress.

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